


Make Damn Sure

by overratedantihero



Series: Strange is the Call of This Strange Man [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Drugging, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Low Key Possessive Behavior, M/M, No Dick Graysons Were Harmed in the Making of This Fic, Non Explicit Description of Body Horror, Slade Wilson's Stunted Emotional Rationalization, Slade is not the aggressor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Slade's contract is disrupted when Dick unwittingly engages with Slade's target.





	Make Damn Sure

**Author's Note:**

> I am most definitely editing this later for clarity and substance, I'm just tired and want to post right now.

“Slade, where even are you? I can barely hear you!” Rose complained, interrupting her own request for Squirrel to look over her newest uniform prototype. Slade adjusted his com, but there wasn’t much he could do. Gotham rooftops did not lend themselves to excellent reception. Even this building, which was comparatively low, was subject to wind and inadequate cell towers. Never mind that Slade could feel the pulsating music from the dance club across the street vibrating in his bones. Surely Rose heard it too.

“Italy,” Slade replied easily. “Wintergreen wanted a week away from the States. Claims it to be healthy.” Slade counted each individual as they exited the club. An open laptop nearby displayed information about car sharing services and patrons thereof in real time.

“Oh,” Rose said, unconvinced.

To quell the questions gathering at the tip of her tongue, Slade said, “I’ll have Squirrel look over your suit and make adjustments. You two should meet regardless, he’s a valuable resource.” Slade would have liked to discuss Squirrel’s uses and flaws in more detail, but this work was unsavory and he was risking the attention of a Bat just by being in Gotham. Slade’s eye flicked around for a tell-tale flash of blue. Any of the Bats would be inconvenient, but Dick would be _taxing_.

“Oh!” Rose said, voice pitched in excitement. “And I can pay for it too, don’t think—”

“Unnecessary,” Slade cut her off. “I have to go. Wintergreen wants a dance.”

“What? Slade—”

Slade tapped his com and it cut out, effectively hanging up on Rose. She should be sated for the time being. Across the street, a man approximately the shape and size of Slade’s target was sauntering out from the protective threshold of the club. The useless but favorite son of a local crime family, Slade was paid generously to assassinate him in order to cripple his father’s judgement.

 Slade was ambivalent to the feuds of crime lords, but he found the specifics of the contract distasteful. Slade preferred to face his targets, to look them in the eyes before he delivered a blow, but his benefactors wanted a clean, anonymous assassination. It was tacky and dishonorable. Better suited for Deadshot, and an underutilization of Slade’s talents. Nevertheless, Slade accepted the contract. He had expensive hobbies and, once he’d fulfilled the contract, Slade wouldn’t mind running into a blue-breasted robin.

He lifted his rifle and peered through the sight. He’d been correct, the man dallying at the curb outside the club was his target. But there was another man hanging off the target, clearly drunk even though Slade’s view of him was obscured by the target body’s, and by the odd angle. The other man wrapped his arms around the target, and the target dipped down to bite at his neck. Slade didn’t _want_ to attempt the shot while the two were entangled, Slade had no great desire to involve a third party. But, he was tired of his perch and he _was_ itching to work out the adrenaline of a hunt with Dick, and so he adjusted his aim and his finger brushed against the trigger of the rifle.

That’s when the other man turned and stumbled in such a way that Slade caught a glimpse of him from behind.

Slade cursed and lowered the gun. The other man was Dick. Slade would recognize his backside from across Gotham. This complicated things. Killing Dick, even harming Dick, would invite Batman’s intervention. It would enrage Dick’s siblings. If the capes and cowls crowd interpreted an injury as an attempt on Dick’s life, then complications would devolve into _messy_ complications.

More to the point, Slade didn’t _want_ to risk Dick in an otherwise trivial contract.

Dick righted himself from and threw his head back into a laugh. The target pulled Dick close again, and Dick’s face became more visible. Slade peered through the telescopic sight again. Dick’s eyes were fluttering and hazy, his movements were uncoordinated, and he was leaning on the target in such a way that suggested he genuinely needed the support.

It was possible Dick was playing a character, that he had some interest in investigating the target’s family. But if that were the case, this was the least efficient method he could have chosen. While well-loved, the target had no hand or even eyes on his father’s business dealings. This certainly wouldn’t be a long-term operation—one-night stands with criminal heirs didn’t often lead to being invited home for dinner.

More probable was that Dick was at the club as a civilian, and that he’d been drugged. Sloppily too, Dick’s tolerance for any mind-altering substance was alarmingly high, courtesy of Batman’s conditioning. As affected as Dick was, had he been any other civilian, he’d likely have already overdosed.

As the target continued laying hands on Dick, and as Dick’s body sagged further into the other man, Slade felt his blood boil. He packed up his rooftop gear and waited for the target to hail his ordered car. Slade tracked the car from his tablet, for mobility as he followed along via rooftops. The run was helpful, it ordered Slade’s breathing and kept Slade’s objectives clear. He would abide by the terms of his contract, but he’d give himself the pleasure of ripping Dick away from the arms of a dense crime heir, too unworthy to even warrant killing with the opposing family’s markers.

Slade followed them to the target’s penthouse. A stupidly traceable location; Slade knew exactly which floor and unit from prior research, and so he perched on a nearby fire escape and waited until the two entered.

Dick was in a worse state than before. He relied entirely on the support of the target, and he appeared dazed. The target dumped Dick on the couch in the main room before leaving for the kitchen bar to make himself a drink. Dick tried to sit up, but he flopped back down and curled in on himself. With a fair amount of unwarranted pride, Slade watched as Dick managed to pat his own person in search of his cellphone. Even while drugged, Dick was adept. 

The cellphone was missing, and so Dick reached for a nearby decorative candle holder and drug it close to his body. When the target finished mixing his drink, he returned to the main room. The target took a long draught from his rocks glass before setting it down on a piece of furniture and moving closer to Dick. Before the target was able to touch him, Dick lashed out with the candle holder.

Warmth flooded Slade when the holder connected with the target’s head hard enough for the decorative wiring to drag and leave behind a slash of red.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t hard enough to slow down the target, and the candle holder was promptly ripped from Dick’s fingers. The target backhanded Dick, and Dick was too slow and weak to counter. And then the target grabbed for the button of Dick’s skinny jeans and Slade decided he’d seen enough.

By the time Slade burst into the room in a shower of shattered glass, Dick was unresponsive. His eyes half lidded and he’d grown completely limp. All the better; Dick wouldn’t abide by Slade’s actions if he were lucid. Slade made quick work of the target, a clean kill made honorable by Slade’s direct confrontation. But, although Slade did not consider himself a possessive man (least of all regarding little birds who frequently flew from his grasp), Slade roiled as he imagined those hands touching Dick. Dick, who was far too trusting and who thrived off attention and physical touch. Had this gone any further, the target would have warped what Dick enjoyed and craved, and that felt too cruel an action for Slade to let it slide.

And so, he handled it.

The next day, Dick woke to a pounding headache and a wave of nausea. He whimpered, and gentle hands pulled him against an expansive chest. Dick knew who it was before he’d opened his eyes. He knew how Slade felt and smelled. By the look of the sheets, Dick was in Slade’s Gotham safehouse.

“Slade?” Dick murmured. Slade rolled Dick so that Dick could see him. Slade was dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Dick realized he himself was wearing jeans and a tight black shirt that he liked to wear out because of the bat decal that glowed under black light. None of this was normal. Slade didn’t wear clothes to bed. Dick did, but only on nights he patrolled. He didn’t patrol the night before, he—what _did_ he do?

“There’s water on the nightstand,” Slade murmured, looking at Dick earnestly. “And ginger chews. Do you want some cereal?”

Dick squinted. Slade was never this attentive. Or maybe he was, sometimes, but not unless something terrible had happened. The last time Slade was this sweet, Dick had come to him after breaking up a human trafficking ring. Still, Dick’s stomach growled and his head throbbed, and he was dizzy so he accepted the pampering.

Slade left the room to go fetch Dick his breakfast, and in his absence Dick reached for the remote and turned on the TV. The morning news was on, and Dick watched earnestly, hoping to see one of his siblings’ work. He couldn’t remember much of the night before, but he did remember taking the night off patrol (maybe Dick drank too much at that new spot downtown that Jason told him about it.)

“-early this morning. Although the victim was likely dead prior to the mutilation, both hands were severed from the body and displayed on the victim’s coffee table. The victim has been identified as the son of Dragos Ibanescu, and police are investigating possible connections to criminal activity.” The news continued, but Dick’s blood ran cold as pieces of the night before returned in confused snippets.

The screen abruptly cut out, and Dick looked up to see Slade standing in the doorway, a bowl in one hand and a remote in the other. They stared at one another for a moment. Dick furrowed his brows and hugged himself as scenes from the night before flashed in his memory.

“He never touched you below the belt or beneath your clothes. I made sure of that,” Slade said, breaking their standoff. “I put sliced strawberries in your cereal, you need more fruit in your diet.”

Dick nodded and wordlessly accepted the bowl when Slade handed it to him, along with a spoon. When Slade slipped back into the bed with him, Dick tucked himself against Slade, suddenly glad for the clothes that kept both of them modest. Slade waited until Dick asked before running his hands through Dick’s hair. When Slade turned the television back on, he changed the channel quickly to something colorful and numbing, some sort of cartoon that Dick remembered watching in Batcave as Robin, on days he was benched from patrol. The nostalgia was soothing and Dick allowed his shoulders to drop and his jaw to unclench. They watched cartoons and Dick ate breakfast, curled closely against Slade the entire time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Per the Code of Hammurabi and just general, eye for an eye archaic practices: if an egregious crime is committed, the body part involved in the crime is removed and sometimes put on display to ward others away from similar crimes. 
> 
> Also, Slade "handled" it. Get it? Bahaha I'm so funny.


End file.
